


Interwoven (but slightly different, & worse writing)

by sarkomi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, There's Blood? And Stabbing?, an alernate ending to chapters 19-20 of interwoven, as for the warning, i just needed a way to let her read it, im a poor artist who decided to write for once, its lame but let me live, pretty much just angst shit, so a fic of a fic?, so dont read it i guess?? unless you want minor spoilers?, this is just some bullshit i wrote after my good ol friend sharky updated her fic, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 14:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18075284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkomi/pseuds/sarkomi
Summary: The only reason Martin was here was because he hadn’t thrown the phone away when he had the chance. If he had, though, Jon would’ve called him and gotten static.So, Martin ends up fighting some knock-off Sandman who currently possessed Jon.Yeah, the situation was not good.





	Interwoven (but slightly different, & worse writing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storyandshark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyandshark/gifts).



> Before you read this, whoever it may be since I'm deciding to (for some reason) publish this, I am not a writer. I don't write for shit and I'm surprised I managed to do this. But hey! Hopefully the person I wrote it for (good ol sharky) will like it. So... Let me just post this real quick so I stop having the urge to delete the entire thing and start over, okay?
> 
> *This work is based off of Interwoven's 19-20th chapters. If you'd like to read Interwoven, go [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437148?view_full_work=true) .*

Despite only being the Weaver for a few months, Martin Blackwood had always been ready to help someone in need. Taking on the responsibility of protecting the city was no easy task, nor was it particularly ideal. He's been punched, kicked, and thrown out more windows than he can count. So, when he felt the familiar drop in his gut, his chest heaving and lungs tightening, squeezing every inch of air out, he thought of it as nothing more than a punch. 

Martin watched as Jon–no, _Shroud_ –stared down at him, unmoving. He half expected Shroud to punch him again, but instead was surprised with the expression that lay on his–Jon’s–face. It was lined with a tinge of excitement, his mouth curled into a pitiful smile. Martin knew this was his chance to make some kind of distance between himself and Shroud, but something was wrong. The way Jon’s eyes were pleading behind Shroud’s possession captured his attention, his senses firing around him as he sorted through the web. They were blinded by Shroud’s stealing darkness, and Martin couldn't feel anything but Jon and the weight in his torso.

Then, without warning, the webs tightened around him, snapping and reshaping themselves inside his mind as he was met with a harsh realization. His thoughts crashed together, the explosion occurring within Martin’s skull striking every nerve, firing down his body.

He tried to push away, to give himself that now critical distance, but his knees gave out before he could take a step. As he fell to the ground, the splintered wood Shroud held pulled on his skin, tightening and twisting around in his abdomen, and his lungs gave way. Martin’s hands immediately grabbed at the object to hold it in place as still as possible, but Shroud kept a firm grip on the end of the wood and dragged Martin against the floor to a pile of debris–the tortuous journey causing Martin’s cry of agony to ring around them, resonating among the walls of the chapel.

He frantically pulled at webs and nearby scraps of wood to stall any movement made by Shroud, at this point forgetting his goal of leaving Jon unscathed. The frenzy of pain in his abdomen was as if Shroud had placed a white hot iron in him, and Martin would do anything to stop the pain. Shroud shoved away each pitiful attempt of a distraction, and twisted the wood further into Martin’s abdomen. The splintering wood carved into the debris behind Martin, holding it in place.

Martin let out another cry, choking on his breath as the mask suffocated him with the heat. His face contorted in pain as he gripped the end of the wood still sticking out of his abdomen. He let out another gasp as waves of hot pain echoed throughout his torso. Shroud had let go of the wood, leaning above Martin with a sick look on his face, the darkness quivering around him in excitement and victory.

“The Web is supposed to be strong–controlling and powerful,” Shroud spat. “You’re nothing but an outlier–you disrupt the equilibrium. Believe me when I say I’m doing you and your little… Friend, Jonathan, a favor.”

Martin wanted to object, but his words came out jumbled. He felt himself begging, _pleading_ , to escape. He wanted to swing out of the chapel and forget he ever answered Jon’s call, but he knew– he _knew_ he needed to be here. He needed to save Jon– but he needed to _get up_ first.

Bending his legs in what he felt were slow, lethargic movements, he grasped at a web and watched it materialize, his eyes stinging with tears. Shroud watched as the Weaver’s small movements tore the wood further in, shifting it around beside his large intestine. Shroud could feel Jon fighting inside his vessel, crying and shouting for him to stop, to do something to him instead. Shroud just kept his eyes on the Weaver, forcing Jon to watch and experience every second of it.  

“You try so hard to not be like us–to use your powers for good. What you fail to understand, Weaver, is that your powers were made to serve your _Entity_ . Instead, you are your petty _humanities_ lead you to believe you should be good. You choose to believe you should go _against_ the equilibrium.” Shroud’s expression curls into one of frustration, closing in on Martin’s frail figure as he tries to stand, only to fall back to his knees, the small impact reverberating up his body and to the bleeding wound.

“Jonathan, however, believes your little courageous act. He wants to be your friend, to trust you. But... he can't trust _anyone_ .” Martin’s ears pound with blood, and he knows Shroud is just stalling. He knows Jon doesn't believe Martin is bad–he knows the Weaver isn’t part of the Entities. He has to. He _must_ trust the Weaver, he knows him.

No, Jon knows _Martin_. He doesn't know the Weaver–not really. But that shouldn't matter, Jon’s smarter than that. He _has_ to know. Yet, a part of Martin understands that Jon doesn’t. He’s driven by hard evidence, seldom does he ever stop to think and look at the obvious.

Shroud understands that, too. 

“It's sad, really,” he ponders. “If only he knew who was under that mask, then maybe he’d trust you– or maybe he’d trust you less. You've been lying to him, after all.”

His voice had shifted to a less distorted, rough growl, to Jon’s own. Martin froze at hearing the voice, knowing in his heart it wasn’t really him– it was Shroud. Even so, that didn't stop his heart from running cold at what Shroud was inferring, dark tendrils snaking towards Martin, the feeling of claustrophobia dawning on him.

His mask. 

“N-No, you don’t–” Martin pleaded, before he felt darkness attack his mind and tear the words away from his mouth as soon as he thought them. He choked, his throat as thick as blood, the unwelcome darkness shifting through his thoughts. He couldn't stop them as they examined every interaction between Jon and the Weaver, stopping for a few seconds as it crossed the Weaver in Jon’s apartment.

Martin watched as Jon’s fingers curled around the edge of the mask, feeling the tingle left on his neck from that night. Jon had come so close to unmasking Martin, he’d– 

“He’s so… Unbearably naïve.” Martin felt the darkness slip out of his memories, the shock that held him disappearing as he slumped back and took in a harsh breath.

“The knowledge eats at his brain, begging for more. It’s powerful, Weaver. The Watcher knows he is hungry. And I figure it’s time he knew.” Martin’s eyes fly up to Shroud, who had now replaced Jon’s eyes with clouded ones, as if he were blind. Shroud’s eyes. He spoke with a voice that made Martin grow cold, fear running down his spine and tightening its grip on him. Martin heard Jon’s voice– _Shroud’s_ voice–mix with those of his friend’s, who were conjured in the darkness. Sasha, Tim, and Jon… Martin wanted to cry out to them, to help them, but it wasn’t really them. He was alone. Surrounded by bodies meant to pull at his mind...

And they spoke: “It’s time we know who you are, Weaver.”

He cried out, covering his ear with one hand, the other putting pressure around the wound, focusing on the pain more than the voices surrounding him, beckoning. “Please, no–”

“Don't resist who you are, Weaver! The Watcher must know!” Shroud grabbed Martin by the shoulders, the foreign, clouded eyes that were once Jon’s staring into him. “To fix the outlier, to restore the equilibrium. You must learn from the mistakes you've made.”

Shroud raised Jon’s hand to Martin’s throat, ripping past the flimsy cape neck and grabbing the fabric ends of the mask. “Stop! Please I–” Martin began to object, but his words were choked at the white hot pain that erupted from his abdomen, looking down to see Shroud had ripped the bloody and splintered piece of wood free. Any struggling Martin had made to stand up now seized at the action as he fell back, held up by Shroud.

The shock echoed through his mind as the webs within his body pulled each cell together, desperately working to keep the blood in and stitch his body. The wound pumped thick, warm blood as it ran down the side of his suit, starting a slow, but growing, pool of blood by his feet. He gasped for air, the sound helpless and weak at the loss of blood.

Shroud pulled back at the mask, lifting it from the bottom to above Martin’s chin, before delicately removing the rest, as if he were ripping off a band-aid. The air, fresh and cold compared to the tight and hot, claustrophobic area within the mask, caused Martin to flinch, having no energy to look anywhere but up at Shroud, whose eyes were focused and demanding.

Shroud, as he focused his eyes on the Weaver, knew everything. The darkness sifted through Jonathan’s mind, grasping as every detail it could on this boy. There was so much, and his mind was racing against the identity of the Weaver. _A name,_ Shroud knew. _I just need the name._

With that, Jon’s head exploded, wracked with pain. His mind scanned over every second it had came into contact with the Weaver. Every moment and every word, desperately pulling apart every possibility and every hint, until it all came crashing forward.

Martin felt himself hit the ground, rolling on his side as he held his hand against the wound, his fingers slipping at the blood, watching Shroud as he fell back, holding his head. The shadows shrieked, the sound clawing at Martin’s ears, but he couldn't cover them. Shroud was in pain: piercing, unimaginable pain. His screams begged and cried, dragging his hands through Jon’s hair, gripping the Weaver’s mask tightly.

And then he fell.

The shadows retracted, falling back into Jon faster than light, and Martin could hardly keep his eyes focused enough to comprehend the fact that they were gone.

A few quiet, torturous moments later, Jon gasped and gagged, grabbing at his throat. His nose bled a black, blood-like substance, as he wheezed, taking slow, heavy breaths. He looked down at his hands, at the blood and the mask.

“Oh my god–Shit, I…”

He knew. 

The Weaver was unmasked, and knew who it was.

“Martin!” He shouted, pushing himself to his feet before going over to the Weaver–to Martin’s–body. “Christ,” Jon hissed, emotion clouding his vision. He felt his mind collapse into a million scenarios of what this could _mean_ , what could _happen_.

“Martin, I…” He choked on his words, not know what to say. His mind was racing for something, anything.

“Jon, just–” Martin winced at speaking, and Jon tried to hush him, to say that he would call the ambulance, to take him to the hospital. Martin just shook his head and tried to sit up, which only resulted in another cry of pain as his wound relit with pain.

“Don't try to get up, Martin, just…” Jon tried to think of what to do. He was riding on an emotional frenzy, and Shroud might be back any minute. He didn't want to focus on how long he had. “Can you… Can you stand?” He asked, which he knew was a pathetic question.

Martin grabbed at a web attached to one of the more stable walls, using his other hand to put pressure on the wound. Jon helped Martin stand up, and caught him once his legs folded. “I got you, I got you.”

Jon didn't want to mention how light he had gotten, given the obvious lack of sleep and eating. He wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist, his other hand gently wrapped around Martin’s, of which was draped across his shoulders. Martin continued to put pressure on his wound, now using the cape to keep blood in.

“Jon, please don't–” Martin pleaded, his voice weak and small. “I can't go, they’ll– they’ll _know_ I’m–” His weight shifted and he collapsed, Jon now supporting all his weight. “Don’t… Don't talk, Martin. I know you don't want help, but you're going to go into shock and…” Jon choked on the last few words. He shook his head, pushing the doors of the chapel open and holding Martin closer as he saw the lightning, the thunder booming around them.

“P-Please, Jon.”

Jon kept walking, looking for… Something. He wasn't sure what, but something– anything.

“Jon– Jon, _please_ , just… _Stop_.”

“And do _what_ , Martin?” He snapped, stopping to look at Martin. “What am I supposed to do? Leave you to bleed out in your flat while I– I just _let_ you?”

Martin opened his eyes to look up at Jon, his breathing uncontrolled and erratic. His eyes were tired, lost and full of emotion. Jon softened at the look, directing his eyes to the wound. He could feel his hands grip around the wood and shove it in. He had been screaming, _pleading_ for Shroud to stop. He could torture Jon all he wanted, as long as he didn't hurt the Weaver.

But he had _let_ this happen.

The Weaver was going to die.

 _Martin_ was going to die.

“All of this happened because I couldn't keep myself safe from Shroud. I knew- I _knew_ it was going to be risky, but I did it anyway. 

“I’m a goddamn idiot, Martin, and I let this happen. Everytime, you– the Weaver– would _save_ me, I… I felt useless. I would be inches from death, and you’d save me! I'm an idiot for not stopping myself, I'm an idiot for not trusting you, and I've done so many goddamn things wrong in this world, but I swear on whatever God there is, Entity or not, Martin, I will _not_ stand here and _let you die!”_ Jon turned to face Martin, which ended up being a slightly awkward angle to be at, but he pushed that thought away. His eyes stung with a foreign feeling, tears welling up in his eyes.

Martin coughed, his chest tightening in pain as he let out a dry laugh, “You know… You- _ah_ \- I’m starting to think… You care a lot more since- since you know who I am.”

Jon didn't exactly appreciate the humor, as dry as it was, but it was a good sign. He let Martin have his laugh, and shook his head. “I’ve always cared, Weaver.”

He lifted his hand to raise the mask up, observing it familiarity. To think back on it, he would rather not remember about how much danger Martin has put himself through. He remembered the burn wounds from Jude Perry, and felt anger rise in his chest. However, that was interrupted by Martin, once again. 

“Let’s just-” He coughed, suppressing the half of it so it didn't stall his talking. “Let’s just… Go home, okay?”

Jon hesitated, before nodding, and helped Martin walk to Jon’s car. Technically, it was Georgie’s, but Jon won't mention that.

But, as he helped Martin get in the passenger seat, his head started to throb and buzz. It felt like the start of a migraine, or as if he bumped his head. The tension eased for a few seconds, before returning, the buzzing and static clouding his hearing.

Jon knew what it was, but didn't say anything to Martin.

He had someone to keep him tied to the surface, someone to hold Shroud down. He'd be fine, he'd figure out a way to fix this. 

He had to. 


End file.
